The Asymptote
by apikale-wahine
Summary: There's something Daphne wants. She reaches desperately for it, and gets closer and closer every day. No matter how far she goes, though, she will never, ever get there. What is it, and why does she want it so bad? Read it and find out. Daphne's POV.
1. Chapter 1

_I open my eyes. I climb out of bed and tiptoe across the chilly floor, over to the window. I pull back the curtain and check the weather._

_Gray. Overcast. With even darker clouds on the horizon._

_I blink and shut the curtains._

_Then I walk to the mirror, the big long one on the inside of my closet door. My eyes are closed again. This is partly because I am still almost asleep, but mainly because I am trying to remember the dream I had last night. I had a dream about a girl who was beautiful. Popular. Perfect. Loved. I can see her clearly, now._

_Before I get dressed for school, I dare to turn my head toward the mirror. A small part of me is hopeful, wishful, in spite of everything._

_I open my eyes again, searching for the beautiful, popular, perfect, beloved girl I saw in my dream._

_My face falls as I see the truth._

_She is not there._

_Only Daphne Blake stares back at me._


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, since I didn't do this last time...**

**--Disclaimer: I-ay on't-day wn-oay coobySay-ooDay. It gets so boring repeating that I just had to do SOMETHING to make it more interesting... I'm sure those of you who don't know Pig Latin can still figure it out.**

**--I'm still stuck on History, Inc. BUT IT'S STILL NOT FORGOTTEN! Really!**

**--The title is kind of confusing; I'll explain it later. Just bear with me.**

**--This story may seem a bit darker than some of my other stories... consider yourself warned.**

**--THIS STORY HAS NO RELATION TO MY OTHER STORIES. Again, repeating it gets old.**

**--I like reviews. Thanx 2 everyone who has thus far reviewed all my other stories.**

**--Enjoy.**

January 2, 6:32 A.M.:

I finish putting on my makeup and wander downstairs for breakfast.

Daddy's at the table, reading the newspaper and eating a donut. Checking his stocks, no doubt.

I adjust my sweater and say nothing.

I stop for a second to flip through the _Style _section. Why, though, I have no idea. Supermodels always look so weird, the way they stare straight at you in the photographs. It's goofy, but in a way that somehow still makes them look perfect. Better than you, anyway. Maybe that's why they stare at you; it's like they have some way of seeing through the inky pages of the newspaper and somehow knowing how ugly you are.

Daddy's paper tilts downward for a second. A part of me almost believes that maybe the "old mornings" are coming back-- mornings like they used to be around here. The mornings when Daddy never read the paper until he had left the house and was well on his commute to work. The mornings when Mother would make me my favorite breakfast-- blackberry pancakes with whipped cream and honey-- and braid my hair while I ate it. The mornings when Mother and Daddy chatted and laughed and joked around with me and we all hugged right before Daddy went to work and I went to school. The mornings when Mother told me she loved me and I was beautiful and I believed her.

Of course those mornings aren't coming back. All Daddy said was, "Go upstairs and change."

"Hmm?" I asked, pretending not to care.

"That outfit's too tight. I'm not letting my daughter wear it."

Some girls would dutifully go upstairs and change. Others would put up a fight-- _Oh yeah? You can't tell me what to do! _Still others would get all teary-eyed-- _Please? I bought it with my own money and all my friends are wearing it and it's not like I'm showing any skin!_

I do none of the above. I just ignore him. And he drops it.

One of the first things I learned when Mother died a year ago is that Daddy may say whatever he feels like, but he doesn't really notice what I actually do. And he doesn't really care. We haven't talked about Mother since she died, really. It's not like mornings, or evenings, or weekends or holidays or vacations, will ever be the same anyway, so why bother? Daddy doesn't make my breakfast like Mother did; he doesn't even notice that I'm not eating anything. Or that I haven't since school started. It's not like he can make me eat, anyway.

I put on my jacket and shuffle away to school.

We don't say goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yes! I can update thanx 2 the fact that it's a SNOW DAY!!! Well, sort of... there's hardly any actual snow but the roads got pretty icy last night so now I have time to update! Yay!**

January 2, 7:30 A.M.:

School starts in thirty minutes. I'm waiting by the gym.

Normally, they leave it unlocked and students are allowed to go in and use it before school if they want. I guess because this is our first day back after Christmas break, the janitor must have forgotten to leave it unlocked this morning. So now I'm sitting here, surrounded by all the other kids waiting to get in but still feeling alone.

Velma sometimes comes in with me, but not today. She said she had to meet with Ms. Skinner, her psychology teacher, about her midterm report. Fred and Shaggy are in the student lounge, undoubtedly playing video games and gorging themselves on the junk in the snack machines, as usual. I could go join them, but I don't need the temptation; I need to lose the two pounds I gained over Christmas. I hope they unlock the door soon, or it will really throw a wrench into that agenda. I could just stay up later and make up for it tonight; maybe if I run an extra two or three miles...

"Hey Daphne..."

It's Arianna Phillips, my lab partner in chemistry class.

"Did you understand what Mr. Williams was talking about when he told us about the whole VSEPR-thingy in--?" She stops talking as I shake my head blankly.

The truth is, I haven't even done the homework. It's not like Mr. Williams actually checks it anyway. He just looks to see if there are any pencil marks on your paper and gives you credit anyway. So I basically just scribbled. Like I've been doing all year.

He's really just like every other adult: Completely oblivious. He doesn't know what's going on any better than he knows that his brown shoes don't match his navy (clip-on!) tie. He's just like my daddy: He says exactly what he thinks we need to hear, then assumes we actually listened.

Jeepers, that's complete bologna.

Chemistry, however, gets pushed out of my head as the faithful janitor approaches the gym door, the keys jingling on his belt. I dash across the gym floor to the locker room on the opposite side and change as quickly as I can. I check my watch. 7:41. _I guess I'll just go one extra mile tonight... _I tell myself leniently. But of course it isn't true. I know what my goal is, and I'll stay up all night running if I have to.


	4. Chapter 4

January 5, 4:30 P.M.:

Cheerleading practice is cancelled. Coach Sandra got the flu and left during fifth period; normally we would practice anyway without her, but our captain, Emily, has that same bug, and so do like six girls on the squad. Which is good in a way and bad in a way. It's good, because I really can't stand Emily anymore. I don't want to sound petty or selfish, but I don't really know why she got to be the captain and I didn't. Last year at competition, I got all-regional MVP, and I can do all of the cheers just as well as she can. And it's not like she can even claim seniority; she's a junior, like me. But she thinks she has everything I don't and isn't afraid to practically stab me in the eye with it.

Missing practice is bad because competition is in three weeks. We already missed loads of time over Christmas break, and this week practice was already cancelled twice due to "inclement weather." Now it's Friday and we can't practice all weekend. It's also bad because I did need the exercise. Not that I can't exercise on my own at home of course. Actually, maybe it's better that way. I can pick my own routine and set my own pace. I don't have to take a break with everyone else. I can press on.

Wait, my cell phone is ringing.

It's Velma. "Hi, Daphne!"

"What's up?"

"Nothing much... do you feel like coming shopping with me this afternoon?"

I think for a minute. I don't want to push Velma away. She's been a great friend to me since my mother died. One of the few I have left. She knows how much I love shopping. Then again...

I guiltily promise myself I'll make sure that workout gets in. I'll just shop with Velma an hour or two; then we'll go home and... it'll get done...

Finally, I give myself permission to say yes.

"Sure," I tell her, hoping she can't sense the uncertainty in my voice.

---------------------------------

"So where do you want to go first?" Velma asks as we enter the mall.

I shrug. "I don't know... where do you feel like going?"

Velma thinks a moment. "How about that new Old Navy in the mall's addition?"

I shake my head. I really don't feel like trying on jeans right now. That's all I ever buy from Old Navy; their shirts always seemed a little too generic for me. Okay, so their jeans are too, but jeans are _supposed _to be generic. Plain. Blend-in. Blue, just like everyone else in the world's. But that doesn't matter because I'm not in the mood to try them on.

Velma's face lights up with another idea. "We could get ready for spring break; it's early this year, in March. Let's try that Hanalua Emporium place."

I shudder. Velma's talking about our spring break trip to Oahu. And if you want to know what's so bad about Hanalua Emporium, it's that its specialty (which it sells year-round even when we've got almost a foot of snow outside) is... swimsuits.

Even worse than jeans.

"No thanks. I mean, we've got two and a half months." _And, _I tell myself to cheer myself up, _by then I'll have lost those last ten pounds and anything I get now won't fit. _Now I feel a little better, at least.

"Well..." Velma considers. "We can go into Bath & Body Works, and--" She claps her hand over her mouth. She's forgotten.

Mother used to take Velma and me in there. We'd get all kinds of lotions and body sprays. Then we'd sort of set up our own spa at home. Not of course that we couldn't afford a real spa-- we could have afforded spa retreats every weekend if we wanted to. But somehow there was something more personal about doing each other's nails while eating popcorn and crying over a chick flick in the living room.

Obviously, those days are over.

"Daphne, I'm... I'm sorry," Velma tells me.

I try to shake it off. Sometimes it's worse when people feel sorry for you than when they just ignore it. But I really can't do that. Shopping in general isn't what it used to be when Mother was alive.

"We can grab a sundae in the food court." Velma can sense that I want to change the subject, and I have to admit I'm grateful for that. But the offer itself does not appeal to me at all.

"No thanks," I tell her. "It's only five o'clock. You can't be too hungry..."

"I'm starved," Velma responds. "Here, let's get something in a cone, so we can walk around the mall with it."

I really don't want the temptation. I really don't want to smell the food court-- the fried donut batter, the greasy pizza, the sizzling cheeseburgers at a thousand calories each, the gigantic hot dogs drizzled with cheese sauce which are composed of nothing but pure fat.

But Velma apparently doesn't mind smelling the food court-- she seems pretty intent on that ice cream cone. _We'll go in and hurry it up, _I rationalize. The line for the ice cream cart isn't all that long...

---------------------------------

"Is that all you're having?" Velma asks, now licking at the sides of the dollop of chocolate fudge threatening to drip over the cone and all over her hand.

I unscrew the cap to my Diet Pepsi. "Yeah," I tell her, (hopefully) confidently. She continues to stare, so I add, "I kind of had a big snack right after school." Actually, I cut up a carrot and ate it with a no-calorie viniagrette. But hey, it was a big carrot...

"Right," Velma comments slowly. She blinks. "You were hungry, weren't you? After forgetting your lunch for the _third day _in a row..."

"Yeah," I tell her. She coughs but says nothing. Somehow I don't think she believes me. She might have believed me the other day, but not this time. At lunch she asked why I didn't just buy something from the cafeteria. I claimed I just really didn't like the food they were serving... but I don't think she bought it. They were serving tacos today, with my favorite ranch-style sauce.

"Tell you what," I say, turning to Velma after an awkward silence. "Let's check out Waldenbooks. I've got a gift card to that place and it's burning a whole in my pocket..."

That's one good thing about when Daddy doesn't see you much at Christmas-- he gives you tons of presents to make up for it. Not that it actually does make up for it, but I figure it's not like he would show up either way, so I might as well enjoy what I've got. This year, among numerous other things, I got a thousand dollars to spend at Waldenbooks. Velma knows I'm going to share; she could definitely use the books more than I ever could. We enter the store.

"Pick something," I tell her.

"What--?" she begins, but I cut her off.

"Anything," I tell her, gravitating toward a rack of magazines. She knows perfectly well that I really don't care how expensive whatever she gets is, but she always checks to make sure.

Meanwhile, I stare at the pictures in the magazines. Why, I don't know. They're just as irritating as the ones in the newspaper, but these are in color. I meet page upon page of smiling model after smiling model, bathed in their auras of perfection. You know they probably spend all their time dieting and exercising, but from the pictures you'd think they had nothing better in the world to do than to go shopping, or stroll through a city park, or sit on the railing alongside the beach as some outrageously cute guy sneaks up from behind and flirts with them. My world is nothing like that. I have to go to school. And no matter how much I try, I know I will never be as beautiful as they are. I still try, though. Because I'm scared of what would happen if I _didn't _try. I'm scared of being ugly.

I flip past the fashion section. I already own half the outfits that look way better on the models anyway. Instead, I flip to the section with all the tips on targeting "problem areas" through exercise. I read through the section on thighs. Perfect. Mine haven't been looking so great lately.

"Hey, Daphne..." Velma comments after a few minutes.

I spin around. Velma is holding a copy of some book titled _Technology and Cosmogenesis. _I don't even want to know what it's supposed to be about.

"Ready to go?" I ask her.

"Yeah, I guess so," she tells me.

We head up to the checkout. I pay for the book and the magazine. Velma digs a couple dollars out of her purse and picks up a few of the truffles they sell at the checkout.

"What flavor do you want?" she asks, selecting dark chocolate for herself.

"No thanks," I tell her. "I told you I wasn't hungry."

We exit the store. Velma offers a few more suggestions as to where else we could go. I pretty much shoot them all down. Velma is becoming frustrated; I can tell.

"If you don't feel like shopping... we could catch a movie," she says, indicating the multiplex behind us.

"I dunno... there aren't really any good ones out right now," I tell her. I don't know why I don't feel like I have much energy. I just shrug.

Velma opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finally she speaks.

"Daphne... do you just want to go home?"

I pause, then nod. We climb into Velma's car and pull out of the mall's parking lot. Velma drives a little more slowly than usual; the roads are pretty icy. She sniffs.

"Sorry about the heater in here," she apologizes, before I can comment on her reddish nose. "It takes a while to start up."

"It's okay," I tell her. I lean back in the front seat, listening to the radio as Velma takes me home. I resist the urge to constantly check my watch. Finally Velma pulls up in front of my house.

I turn to leave, but she stops me. "Daphne?" she asks hesitantly. "Daphne... is everything all right?"

It takes me a few seconds to process what she says and to formulate a good response. Finally I answer.

"Yeah," I say. "Everything's fine."

There. I just lied to my best friend. Without meaning to. It's not that I don't want to say what's wrong, but I honestly don't know what is. Everything just feels kind of out of place lately.

"All right..." she tells me. "I guess I'll see you at church on Sunday? Or if you can't make it, at school on Monday?"

"Sure," I tell her, then I hurry into the house. Velma waits until I get in, then drives off. Daddy isn't home. Of course he isn't. He won't be until almost ten.

I feel really tired. All I really want is to plop down in front of the TV with a bag of cookies and sleep the evening away. But I don't dare succumb to this desire. Hard as it is even to climb the stairs, I march up to my room, don a workout suit, and set about my routine.


	5. Chapter 5

January 6, 2:43 A.M.:

I go the last few paces on the eliptical, then stop and read the screen. _Calories burned: 800_, it says. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I stretch and climb off of the machine. I feel like I'm drooping on the way to the shower. I did laps around the block until it got dark. Then I spent the rest of the evening in our home gym. At one point, Daddy asked me to join him for dinner. I told him I already ate. Which of course was a lie, and unlike the one I told Velma, I didn't even care that I was lying.

As usual, Daddy dropped it.

I wash the sweat away. I start shampooing my hair. As I rinse, several strands of red fall from my scalp into the drain. My hair hasn't been looking so good lately; it's thinner, and the color has gotten pretty dull too. Really, I guess I just call myself a redhead now out of habit more than anything. It's not the color it used to be... the color my mother had.

I step out of the glass enclosure. The steam from my shower has filled the bathroom until it is almost impossible to see.

After drying off, and giving the steam some time to die down, I bend over and wipe condensation from the glass-covered screen on the digital scale. Before putting my bathrobe on, I step on it, bracing myself for what the numbers might say.

109 pounds, it says. Fortunately. I've lost those two pounds, plus another two. Still, the whole thing did set me back from my plan, so I should probably make up for it. I don't know what I was even thinking over Christmas. I mean, did I really have to eat all those cookies? And somehow I was so busy I didn't even try to burn them off.

I guess maybe I just ate for my friends. I think Velma's been really worried or something, and I guess I just wanted to prove nothing was wrong. Velma doesn't need to worry about me.

After all, nothing's wrong... right?

109 pounds...

I remember the number in my head. By next week, I'll see if I can get it down to 105. And that's just a start.

And maybe, somewhere along the line, I'll find that girl I had a dream about...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A/N: I based Daphne's weight here on the assumption that she is five feet, seven inches tall; I'm not accusing anyone out there who might weigh 109 pounds of having problems or anything-- height plays a huge role in the equation, obviously; I'm not trying to offend anyone...**


	6. Chapter 6

January 11, 6:28 A.M.:

I walk downstairs to our breakfast table. Actually, Daddy's breakfast table. I almost flirt with getting caught; I actually sit right across from him and look him in the eye as if I were saying, "See? No food!" And of course he doesn't read my expression; he's too busy reading the _Business_ section.

I even put on that same outfit I had a while back-- the one he said was too tight. This time he doesn't say anything. Although I don't know how much of that is his not caring and how much of that is the fact that this time it really isn't too tight. He wanted me to wear something looser; I wore something looser. I shrink; he gets his wish. Don't you just love it when everybody wins...

Seriously, his silence is killing me. Finally he notices he has a daughter, and she is sitting directly across the table from him. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a scrap of paper. I stare at him, unbelieving.

"Here," he tells me. "It's the number for the hotel I'll be staying at."

"What?" I blink. What's he talking about? Actually, I already know, or at least I should...

"I have a conference to attend in Tokyo. It's a very long and important one and I'll be away for nearly a month."

Inwardly, I'm screaming. Inwardly, I'm really, really mad at him for just springing this on me now. Knowing him, he's probably leaving right after I leave for school.

But outwardly I say nothing. Outwardly I smile. "I'll miss you, Daddy," I tell him, all sweet as though I really were going to miss him. Why am I even making such a big deal out of this? He's practically never here, anyway.

He smiles back, and I wonder vaguely if his smile is as fake as mine. Then again, he's even sweet for a minute or two. "Don't be late for school," he tells me.

"I won't, Daddy." I should be an actress.

I leave just then, having survived yet another breakfast without him noticing... it. And I'm about to face a month where I won't even have to try not to get caught. Not that I have to try_ now_. I control my food. I control my weight. I control my life.

Daddy controls nothing. And I like it this way.

On the way to school I toss the hotel number in a trash can. Daddy and I both already know I'm not actually going to call, and he isn't either.


	7. Chapter 7

January 13, 5:23 P.M.:

Fred is coming over at any minute now.

I look atrocious.

No, seriously, I do. My routine hasn't been going so well lately. I'm trying to stick with it, but I really don't have the energy. Last night while I was running my laps, I got so tired and dizzy all of a sudden that I sat down right in the middle of the sidewalk and didn't get up for about fifteen minutes. Finally I had to call it quits, and I dragged myself home and climbed into bed. I felt like such a failure! It was only eight o'clock, and I slept until nearly noon today. It's been like that a lot lately, except that with today being Saturday it was the first time I could afford to sleep that late. Needless to say, I haven't quite been losing as fast as I planned to. I'm down to 106.

I do what I can with my tired, faded hair. Finally I just clip it back and leave it. I put on some extra deoderant to hide the sweat from my recent (vain) attempt to make up for last night. I pull on the purple spaghetti-strap gown that was pretty tight when I first got it a month ago, but it's _finally _gotten loose enough to feel natural. That makes me feel a tiny bit better. At least I'm not too fat for the dress.

I dig out my high-heeled sandals that match the dress. I kind of wobble a little bit as I try to stand up in them. Then again, I've been wobbling a lot lately. I don't think it has anything to do with the heels.

The doorbell rings.

I hurry as fast as I can down the stairs. I know I've lost weight since our last date, but I'm still kind of worried. What if Fred thinks I look fat anyway? What if he thinks his girlfriend looks disgusting? What if he doesn't really want to be seen with me?

I open the door.

"Hey, Daphne!" Fred hands me a bouquet of carnations dyed lavender. "You look beautiful tonight!"

I don't really believe him. But I follow him out to his car.

"So... where are we going?" I ask curiously. Hopefully not dancing; I don't think I could do that right now.

"You tell me," he says, grinning. "I'm pretty hungry; let's do dinner first. Angelo's Pizza or Helga's Steakhouse?"

I hate it when my friends do that to me. There's really no way of getting out of dinner; it's a traditional part of date nights. Angelo's is of course greasy, with the fattiest cheese on everything and probably no dish under 800 calories. Not that steak is any better, but at least that place has a salad bar.

"Helga's, I guess," I tell him, trying to mask the guilt the option stirs up inside. Fred smiles and turns left at the next intersection.

------------------------------------------------

The one thing I hate about ordering the salad bar is that whoever you're with always winds up staring at your food after you get your salad and the cook's still busy with his meal.

I hate eating in front of people, especially guys. Especially Fred. Why should I feel bad, though? I was a good girl. I got the salad. I put the calorie-free dressing on it. I didn't get any croutons or bacon bits or cheese. I did get celery sticks on the side-- I read somewhere they have negative calories, so that's fortunate.

There's this awkward silence hovering over the table. Our dates aren't normally like this. That's why we started going out in the first place-- it was always such a blast. But there's this icy tension in the air that seems to work its way into the deep recesses of our throats and keeps us from talking.

Fred tries to dispel the situation. He butters a roll from the breadbasket the waitress just handed us and hands it to me.

"Here," he tells me. "The sourdough here is pretty good."

"No thanks," I tell him, plastering a fake smile to my face and taking a sip of my Diet Sprite. "I've never really been a big fan of it."

He shrugs and puts the roll onto his own plate. He picks up a different piece. "Why not this one, then? You love pumpernickel."

It's true. Fred knows it. Back in elementary school, every single peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich my mother packed me was pumpernickel. A lot of the kids thought that was a weird combination, but I actually hated Wonderbread. It always let the jelly leak through. Fred had always thought my preference for pumpernickel was cute and would always humor me for it.

There seems to be no backing out of this one. "Um... actually I think I'm starting to outgrow it, believe it or not." This excuse is less convincing than my other one.

Fred halfheartedly gives it one last shot. "Italian, then?"

I shake my head. "I think I'll skip the bread today. It's really just an appetizer and I've already got my food."

Fred nods and puts the piece back. He munches thoughtfully on the sourdough roll I refused until the waitress comes by with his steak and potatoes. We talk a little bit about superficial stuff-- who's playing whom in the next football game, the possibility of a new coat of paint for the Mystery Machine, whether the school would ever get around to replacing our rusty old lockers... blah, blah, blah. Somehow we can't say anything important. Fred seems like he does _have _something to say, but he looks away whenever I catch him with that strange expression on his face. I wonder vaguely what's on his mind.

"Can I buy you dessert?" he offers after finishing the steak.

"No thanks," I tell him, as sweetly as I can.

"Are you sure? I--"

"I'm sure," I respond. I hope I don't sound rude, or worse, suspicious. I think I have some idea what's going on, but I can't really put it into words.

He opens his mouth once more, then lets it go. "Fine, then." He asks the waitress for the check and we soon leave the restaurant.

------------------------------------------------

Although I think Fred's original plans were to take me to a movie, he seems to intuitively know I'm not in the mood tonight. Thus, he asks me if I just want to go home, and I gratefully reply yes.

We enter the house. Boy, I feel like such a goody-two-shoes coming home at a quarter to seven when Daddy isn't even home. But then, if you really don't feel like breaking curfew, why bother?

Actually... in some ways maybe coming home this early could be construed as rebellious, too. Fred and I have completely free access to the house. Sheesh, with Daddy gone we could go the whole way and he'd never be any the wiser. A small part of me is sorely tempted to try it.

Except Fred wouldn't go for it. I know because a few months ago when Daddy was gone for a couple weeks I brought Freddy into my room and we started making out. I think I was even more tempted then than I am now. I had gotten as far as undoing his ascot (which I know, has nothing of a sexual nature at all to it, except for the suggestion that I was willing to take off more). Then he seemed to get kind of nervous and turned around.

"Was that your dad?" he asked.

I laughed. "Daddy's not even home. We've got the place to ourselves."

Fred got up then. "Then I shouldn't be here," he said, responsible all of a sudden.

"Oh, come on--"

"No, I'm serious..." He looked away, all of a sudden scared to talk about it. He left shortly afterward.

Later I managed to talk him in to coming over when Daddy isn't around-- he knows I need company-- but I never really kissed him after that while Daddy wasn't here, not that Daddy would care if he were. I mean, if Fred didn't want to, I couldn't force him.

This time, as we wander into the living room, Freddy kisses me. It isn't a crazy, I'm-kissing-you-because-nobody's-around kiss.

It's a serious kiss. Fred isn't smiling. As soon as he finishes kissing me, he sits down on the couch. Not in a come-on-let's-make-out sort of way. More of a come-on-let's-talk sort of way.

"Daphne?" he asks, as I sit down next to him.

"Yes?"

"Daphne... you do know I meant it when I said you looked beautiful, right?"

I look over at him and say nothing.

"I mean... I've always thought you were beautiful. And I think you always will be. I... I just wanted you to know that."

Why does he seem so nervous? A paranoid part of me almost wonders if he actually doesn't think that. What if he just wants to make me feel good? What if he really does think I'm fat and ugly and not beautiful at all? I fidget uncomfortably.

"I... thanks, that's really sweet..." I'm still not sure I believe it.

He kisses me again. He runs his hand through my hair. "Daphne, I just want to make sure you know what I really think. I want you to believe it yourself."

"I do believe it, Fred." I, the master of fake smiles, don another one for him. The truth is, although I really, really wish I could, I don't believe him.


	8. Chapter 8

January 19, 6:12 p.m.

What's another lie, anyway?

Velma asked me if I wanted to go shopping with her after school today. I told her no, I wasn't feeling well. Then of course I come home and I jump on the treadmill. I just can't stand to be at the mall anymore, especially trying on clothes.

Well, the whole not-feeling-well thing wasn't exactly a lie, anyway. I really wasn't feeling so good this morning. I was kind of lightheaded. Right now I'm starting to think it's a good thing Fred won't do more than kiss me; otherwise I think I'd be freaking out right now. I haven't gotten my period in almost four months.

But I still lock myself away. I lock myself into this gym. I lock myself out of the rest of the world. Not that I need to, anyway. I don't need to lock Daddy out to keep him away.

There's a TV in here. I don't know why I even keep it on. Worse, I don't know why I watch all these ads. I know, they say the people in ads aren't real, blah blah blah.

But I can't help but stare at the people-- the beautiful people. They look like people who are always enjoying themselves. They look like people who magically never have to count calories or work out to look like they do. Why can't I look like that?

My dizziness comes back.

I try to hold myself in. I really do. But things feel so fuzzy... so strange...

Suddenly I'm not on the treadmill anymore. I'm on the floor, panting. What... what happened?

I stand up, the fuzzy brownish-purple spots floating in front of my eyes as I get up too fast. Once the spots clear, I check my watch: 7:51 p.m.

I must have conked out, somehow.

I...

I think I fainted.

I rub my head. Did I just pass out in the middle of my workout? That was... that was really weird.

I start to climb back on again, but the dizziness won't leave me alone. Finally I get off.

Quitter.

I stumble, defeated, into the bathroom and step onto the scale. I don't have the energy to shower.

102 pounds.

I manage to smile at that. _Two more pounds, _I think to myself.

Holding this piece of thinspiration in my head, I do another hour on the treadmill, then trudge into my room, falling onto my bed in a sweaty heap.

I don't even change out of my workout suit.


	9. Chapter 9

January 24, 7:27 a.m.

I cross the gym floor, where my classmates are already doing laps, running on treadmills, lifting weights, and throwing balls around. I start to open the door to the girls' locker room, the same as I do every day.

It's locked.

Before I can spend much time pondering why it won't open, Denesha Peyton, a girl from my English class, explains it for me. Her tone suggests that I'm not the first person she's had to notify, either.

"You have to go to Coach Eric's office," she tells me. "They've been having problems with someone breaking into the locker room and stealing stuff, so now the only way in is if he personally unlocks the door."

"Oh... thanks..." I tell her. I shuffle out of the gym and into the office at the side.

The door to the office is open, but Coach Eric isn't in there. Instead I find Fred perched in front of his desk.

"Hey, Daphne..." he tells me. "I guess someone must have told you--"

"Yeah, Denesha did... but she said Coach Eric--"

"He had to take an urgent call at the front office. Since I've been playing football and baseball with him since I was in Little League, he knows me well enough that he trusted me with the key."

"Sweet!" I tell him, smiling. I start to leave the office, but Fred won't get up from the chair.

"Fred--?"

"Hang on, Daphne." He motions for me to sit in one of the blue plastic chairs in front of the desk. I have to clear off a sweaty jersey (ew!) before I can sit down. I hope he makes this quick...

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Yeah... sure..."

He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a Snickers bar.

"Special privilege Coach offered to anyone who would help him in the office before school today," he explains. "He's got a whole stash in there! Just don't tell Shaggy, or someone will be breaking into the office too!" He giggles slightly at his own joke. Then he straightens up.

"You want one?" he asks, not really even smiling now.

I shake my head, instinctively at this point. "No thanks."

He chucks the candy bar back into the drawer and closes the drawer slowly. I can somehow tell he wasn't really expecting me to say yes. An awkward silence floods the office for a few seconds.

"Listen, if you're not going to talk--" I start as I stand up to go. Maybe he'll just let me into the locker room and that will be the end of it.

"Daphne." He stands up but does not move away from the desk. "I _was_ going to talk."

"Then can you hurry--?"

"You're really eager to get into the gym, aren't you?" I nod, frustrated.

"Daphne... that's exactly what I've been worried about."

I stare at him, uncertain. He rubs his temples with his hands, then continues. "You've... you've been exercising a lot lately."

"Well, I have to stay in shape; cheer competition is Friday, and--" I'm really trying not to sound out-of-control or anything, but somehow that's not easy.

"A _lot_ lately, Daphne."

"Yeah? So what's your point?"

"My point isn't just the exercise. You... you don't eat anymore."

He said it. I feel a sensation not unlike a wrecking ball going straight through my chest. I feel as though a cold iron has penetrated my heart.

_He knows._

"I eat!" I say, but my voice is shrill, and neither of us thinks I sound the slightest bit believable.

"Not like you should be." Great, now the one thing I need most of all is a preacher. "Daphne... I'm concerned about you. You haven't been feeling well lately at all, and I can tell." He checks the hallway to make sure no teachers are coming, then kisses me quickly. He starts playing with my hair. "After our last date, remember how exhausted you were? And then at the restaurant all you had was a salad. Look, I don't want to sound overly worried, but this has been going on so long. Something just doesn't seem right."

"Something like... what?"

He pauses. "Maybe it isn't my place to tell you this. But your behavior reminds me..." His voice trails off. A tear forms in his eye.

"Of Chelsea."

I stare blankly. "Who's Chelsea?"

"My cousin."

Fred stands up and starts pacing the room. "She was about my age, about two years older, actually..."

" 'Was'?"

"She... she's gone now."

I gasp and put my arm on his shoulder. "Fred... I'm so sorry!" There, maybe if I can deflect the issue to someone else...

"It's all right, Daphne. This was a few years ago. I was twelve, so Chelsea would have been fourteen. It's just... it's how she went. She was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa just a month before she died. She was really good at hiding it. Somehow nobody noticed she was starving until she passed out in the middle of my other cousin's graduation. They took her to the hospital, but even there they couldn't get her to eat. They had to feed her through these IV tubes, and someone had to watch her to make sure she didn't pull them out. Her heart failed soon afterward."

There's this painful silence as I really don't know what to say.

"Freddie..." I finally respond. "Chelsea was an extreme case. That doesn't happen to most people." A horrified part of me assures myself, _That doesn't happen to people like me._

"Daphne, it didn't start out that way!" Fred's voice is raised somewhat. He breathes, then continues. "Daphne, if I had said anything, things might have been different! Chelsea and I were friends. We were the only ones close in age to each other, so at reunions, weddings, Thanksgiving, Christmas, we always would hang out together. I had noticed almost two years before her death that Chelsea wasn't eating."

"Fred?"

"Nobody else really paid attention to her, Daphne! But I did. I noticed that she would discreetly scrape her plate into the trash on Thanksgiving. I noticed that if we were in the backyard and the ice cream truck came by, she would pretend not to hear it. I noticed that her Easter and Halloween candy stayed untouched in her room. I could have said anything, to anyone... but I didn't."

"Freddie, you were just a child; nobody could expect you to--"

"I was worried, though, Daphne! But I didn't say anything. And now it's too late." He doesn't even try to disguise the cruelty in his voice. "I feel like I have another chance somehow, Daphne! I'm not going to let the same thing happen to you!"

"So that's all I am?" I fly up from my chair, angry. " 'Another chance'? Look, I'm sorry about all that happened, but look, Chelsea and I aren't the same. At all!"

"Daphne--"

"All I want is my exercise, okay? I'm not going to _die_ or anything! And guess what? No matter what you do with me, she's still _gone_! Bugging me isn't going to change that, so save all your goody-good advice for the school newspaper!"

I look at the clock on the wall. 7:53. Class is going to start soon. It's obvious that I'm not going to talk him into letting me use the locker room anyway.

I gather my things and march to class. I already know Fred and I aren't going to talk for the rest of the day. Okay, so maybe he'll try to talk to me. But I'm sure not going to listen.


	10. Chapter 10

January 24, 12:13 p.m.

They just announced that they're sending us home early today.

There's been this snowstorm raging on all morning, and apparently they're scared that if they don't send us home now, the roads will be too nasty to drive on. It doesn't matter; I walked to school today.

Around me, the other kids are cheering. We were supposed to have a big math test this afternoon, but now it's been postponed. I suppose I should be happy about that, since it's not like I studied, but I'm not. I don't have the energy to be happy anymore.

Velma practically sneaks up behind me at my locker. "Hey Daphne, why don't you come hang out at my house this afternoon?"

I shrug. "Why not?"

We head out to the snow-covered parking lot where Velma parked her car.

"Are you sure you can drive on this?" I ask her. She nods as we climb in.

"My cousins in Alaska taught me how to drive while I was at their place, and while we were out on the roads there was a huge blizzard. They showed me how to drive even under those conditions, and the next time they visited us they outfitted my car with all kinds of snow-compatible gear. Speaking of Alaska..." She looks thoughtful for a moment. "You wanna stop at Alaska Sam's on the way to my place?" Alaska Sam's is the new ice-cream parlor on Third Street. "They have this new hot-fudge sundae that--"

She notices I'm shaking my head. I feel a pang of deja vu. I think she's trying the exact same tactic Fred was trying earlier today.

"Or we could just grab something at my house."

"I'm not hungry!" Great. I think if Freddie hadn't confronted me like he did this morning, I could have said the words more convincingly. But at this point I'm just too exasperated. Velma takes her eyes off the road for just a second and looks at me funny, then shifts her gaze back to the street in front of her.

"Daphne?" she asks, and her calm, yet authoritative, tone gives me an uneasy sensation as though I'm in a confessional. "Are you all right?"

"I don't feel too good," I tell her, and for once I'm telling the truth.

"You've been spacing out a lot lately..."

"Not you too!"

Velma blinks. I can tell she's curious as to who else told me I was acting strange, but I'm not going to answer that curiosity. She doesn't ask, anyway. She is silent until she makes a left turn, then begins talking again.

"Daphne." The word is not a transition to her next sentence; nor is it meant to grab my attention for her next statement or question. The word is a statement, in and of itself. Velma closes her eyes (for the longest period of time that can be considered safe for someone who's driving), inhales, exhales, and starts drumming on the steering wheel. Then she surprises me. Instead of continuing toward her house, she steers into the tiny parking lot of the thrift store that is always closed, the parking lot we've always used if we need to stop right in the middle of driving. She parks the car and rests her forehead on the steering wheel for a second.

"Don't tell me the snow's gotten too bad for you to drive!" I know that isn't the case; Velma was doing just fine driving thirty seconds ago. But I need something, anything, to distract her from what I know is imminent.

"It's not that." Velma turns to me. "And don't try to make it that, either." Her voice is firmer now. A second ago I could tell she wanted to avoid this conversation almost as much as I did.

"Daphne... I've been worried about you."

How should I respond to that? I could play dumb: _Why on Earth, Velma? What do you think is wrong, Velma? _Except you really can't play dumb with someone as smart as Velma. She knows, somehow. I could get defensive, and I'll admit, the temptation is great: _Why does everyone keep saying that? I'm fine! _(storms out in an angry huff). But I can't do that either. Velma's my best friend. I can get mad at her, sure... but all that would do is let her know that something is _really _wrong.

So I keep my mouth shut. I look sharply at her. If she wants to talk... fine.

"I've been worried about you for a while, now. Ever since... that thing that happened a year ago, everything's been different."

I know she's talking about my mother. "Velma, I'm over that."

"No, Daphne, you're not." She looks at me over the top of her glasses. "And whether you are or not, what really concerns me is--"

I will her not to say it. Come on, Fred said it already; why do I have to hear it from anyone else?

"--you haven't been eating."

Alakazam. She said the magic words. I only look at her. She can carry on this conversation if she wants, but I don't have to say anything.

"I'm really concerned. You haven't eaten lunch at school since before winter break. If we hang out after school, you never eat then."

_Since when is it your job to tally up my every move in life? _I think to myself, frustrated.

But of course Velma can't hear my thoughts.

"And Fred tells me that when you two go out, you barely eat anything then." Sure, trust Fred to spill everything. "This isn't healthy, Daphne. How much longer are you going to keep it up?"

All of a sudden, I feel it. A rage I was barely aware of suddenly igniting, like a firecracker. All at once, I fly off the handle.

"I DON'T KNOW!" I unbuckly my seat belt and open the car door, but don't get out quite yet. "MAYBE UNTIL I LOSE FIVE MORE POUNDS! MAYBE UNTIL I LOSE TEN! MAYBE UNTIL I STOP FEELING FAT AND UGLY AND USELESS AND INVISIBLE!" Boy, I'm really on fire now. "MAYBE UNTIL GIRLS LIKE EMILY STOP ACTING LIKE THEY'RE BETTER THAN ME WHEN THEY'RE NOT! MAYBE UNTIL DADDY REMEMBERS HE HAS A DAUGHTER AND COMES HOME! MAYBE UNTIL MOTHER MAGICALLY COMES BACK FROM THE DEAD! MAYBE UNTIL I SHRINK AWAY TO NOTHING AND NOBODY EVER NOTICES!" Boiling-hot tears make my makeup run as I jump out of the car. They land on the snow, little dots of pink or black or blood-red. I turn to go.

"Daphne! Wait!" Velma leans over and grabs desperately for the edge of my coat-- a huge risk, seeing as I was just about to slam the door and almost got her arm.

"I... I noticed," she tells me, timidly, in a voice more frightened than that used in encountering any monster, ghost, or zombie we've ever faced.

There it is. Every ounce of honesty, of sincerity, of love and trust and strength and courage of which our friendship has been comprised since we were children pours heavily from my best friend's face. She's crying too, now.

The impact hits me. She does care. She's a good friend, a true friend, and she sees what I'm doing to myself. And it's making her miserable. I'm making her miserable. It's my fault I'm doing this to her.

But I can't stop.

The hot tears continue to gush down my face, burning my skin. I feel so helpless, so confused. I know I'm torturing both of us, but I can't do anything about it.

I stare at my friend, entirely speechless. She reaches over to hug me, but I feel so ashamed. Instead, I break away. I run away, toward home, not even caring about the snow that stings as it flies into my face.

I'm alone.

And I chose to be here.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I last updated; I really am! Here's where you find out how the story got its name. Thanks for your patience and understanding; Melanie I hope you get the chance to read this!**

January 25, 2:17 p.m.:

I got up really, really late this morning. As in, I just got dressed three hours ago. Since then, I have been hovering between my math notes and the treadmill, never really caring much about either.

Today is a snow day. They announced last night on the radio that they would cancel school the night before as there was no sign of the storm letting up. So when my alarm clock went off this morning I just hit the off switch. I don't even care about my routine anymore. I don't care about anything. Since I lashed out at Velma yesterday, I cried and cried and cried until 2 a.m. this morning. Now I'm done crying. Now I'm done with everything.

The phone rang just before noon. I didn't even answer it. I was so scared it was Velma I didn't dare even check the caller ID. If I knew for a fact it was her, I would have to pick up. I don't want to talk to her anymore. I don't want to talk to Fred, either. I just know they talked to each other last night. Swapping stories about me, no doubt.

It turned out not to be from either Velma or Fred. I heard Coach Sandra leave a message on the answering machine, saying that because all the schools are surely going to be out for the next few days, there was a unanimous decision to move the cheer competition to a week from tomorrow, instead of tomorrow as originally planned. Now I can just hear Emily when we get back: "So like, didn't you girls _practice _while we were gone?" Stupid skinny Emily. Watch her blame it all on me when we don't win.

I've _got _to make more progress...

I climb on the eliptical, desperately struggling to burn 25... 50... a hundred more calories. I feel weaker the harder I try.

I step on the scale once more. For a second I'm confused by the reading; that's when I realize I've been leaning on the counter for balance. I manage to stand on my own and read the screen.

98 pounds.

There. Only double digits. Exactly what I've been trying for. So through hard work, diet and exercise... that's it. A number on a scale. I'll starve myself until I waste away to nothing, and it still won't be enough. My friends tell me I'm perfect, and I want to believe them. Maybe I even do believe them. But I'm not trying to be perfect; I'm trying to be good enough.

Which is harder than perfection, I'm coming to realize.

I collapse on the floor, catching myself with my hands. I pull over my math book and actually make an attempt to study. There's no way I can stand up, let alone do my exercises.

I open the book to chapter 14, which we supposedly went over in class even though I don't remember ever reading it.

A definition jumps out at me, its bold letters popping out of the page:

**Asymptote-- A straight line that is approached but never met by a curve.**

_Approached but never met by a curve._

Approached... but never _met_.

I know that feeling. It's the same feeling I've been having for months now.

Because there's something I _am _approaching. I'm getting there, all right. Every day it seems I lose just a tiny bit more, and I'm getting closer and closer to that perfect, beautiful, thin girl I keep having dreams about.

I'm always getting closer... closer... toward perfection and beauty. I approach it.

But I will never meet it.


End file.
